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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an remarkable episode. I think it did me good. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A forgotten session was had by all. Good food, fine drink and surprisingly humorous stories about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any modern society would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I tried to get some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable change, right lads?”

One person chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a position. Another two men entered the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not blame her.